Humbug
I use to write porn for a 24 hour text message service. I'm a man, but I'd pretend very convincingly to be a woman as I replied to men paying premium rate charges to text a woman that didn't exist in the hope that their feeble cocks would eventually see some daylight. Basically, I was fuelling their wank fantasies.

Christmas party day, they told me to man the computer. Whilst they ate, drank and were merry, I tossed about 500 men off, via the medium of SMS. Crying. Alone.
( $$ ✅, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 10:06, 4 replies)

My Christmasses alternate between England and Poland
And since my Britannic parents live in the middle of fucking nowhere, hours from an airport, train station or even a bus stop, I usually drive. So one 23rd of December, I bundled the girlfriend, a picnic hamper and lots of presents into my car and set off. "Turn. LEFT" barked my GPS, sounding like an aroused Helga from 'Allo 'allo. "Continue. STRAIGHT. for. ONE thousand FIVE hundred And.

SIX.

kilometres."

I don't know why GPS voices sound like that, but those were the directions I needed from my flat in Warsaw to the French port of Dunkirk, where my brit-bound boat awaited. I snicked the car into gear, patted the girl's leg, and set off.

We swept across the flat tedium of Poland in six hours, and had lunch at a roadside stop just south of Berlin. The air was bitterly cold and there was frost on the picnic benches, but the sky was clear and bright. At this pace, it would only be 10 hours to the French coast, or so we thought.

Two hours later the empty autobahn turned into a river of red lights. Three lanes at a standstill, packed solid. I shut off the engine and waited.

And waited. Still nothing moved. People were milling around, walking between cars. I dozed off.

After two more hours the girlfriend nudged me awake. Movement. Not of lights or cars though, but big flat snowflakes tumbling lazily from the sky. We watched, enthralled, and warmed ourselves with tea from the thermos as the black tarmac turned white under a frozen blanket.

We played Yahtzee to stay awake. The car next to us slipped off its handbrake and rolled backwards into a truck, causing a fight that alleviated the tedium for ten minutes. My girlfriend pissed into a water bottle that I'd carved into a rudimentary SheWee. We finished the picnic. The hours ticked on.

Finally, after seven hours parked on the autobahn, the engines around us roared into life. It was now well into the night, and the road was covered in at least a foot of snow. The cars slowly moved forwards, and the needle on my speedo barely reached the first numbers. As a convoy the traffic crawled through the snow at 20kmh. The snow had been a blizzard that swept across central Germany, shutting down the entire traffic infrastructure. We trundled past huge snowdrifts in the eerie flat landscape for two hours before pulling into a service station, freezing and exhausted.

It stopped snowing a few hours later, but only one lane of the autobahn had been cleared. With a few hours' kip in the back seat, I had the energy to plough on, and hit the Dutch border shortly after dawn. The snow fizzled out halfway though Belgium, and we arrived at the French coast at midday, Chrismas Eve, 30 hours after we'd left home.

There was only one more ferry making the crossing before Christmas Day, and that was in two hours. Add on two more hours for the crossing and time to get to my parents, and we finally dragged ourselves through the door of my Dad's house a full day later than planned, filthy and stinking from the journey, half-starved and sleep-blinded. What better state to introduce my girlfriend to my parents, whom she'd never met before?
( Grrrmachine the indifference engine, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 8:53, 6 replies)

little festive pea
Presents

supposedly my best gift ever
or so my mum says. it's not exactly your average gift, but she still talks about it.

one year, when i was about 11 years old, mum came home from the shops in tears. she'd just been out to buy the christmas food, but somebody else had obviously been looking for a bargain and had mugged her and stolen her purse. she reported it to the police, who were, of course, no help whatsoever.
seeing my poor mum so distraught, i had a bit of a brainwave: i'd go carol singing! the few posher streets in our area were always good for a few quid, so i donned my parka and set off, towing mum's shopping trolley with me. fortunately, she didn't notice me taking it.
through the freezing wind and slushy snow i trudged, peddling my dodgy vocal talents from house to house. after 2 hours, i decided i'd had enough and called it a day. when i counted up my takings, the total was a little over £50. i was delighted! scurrying as quickly as i could, i made my way to the local supermarket, where i filled the trolley with festive treats, including a fairly decent sized turkey. every last penny went on shopping, from bread and milk to toilet rolls, everything i thought we'd need. feeling very pleased with myself, i towed the trolley home in the growing dusk.
i arrived home to see mum still red-eyed, worrying about how she'd cope without the food money. i showed her the trolley full of goodies and explained what i'd done.
i didn't expect the waterworks that followed! mum absolutely sobbed her eyes out. in my tiny kiddy brain, i thought i'd done something wrong.
she gave me the biggest hug imaginable and kept right on crying.
we had a great christmas that year.
that was 25 years ago, but she still talks about it.
(Fri 27th Nov 2009, 21:33, More)
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 22 Dec 2015, 14:30, 9 replies)

( Two Hats 🎩🎩, Thu 24 Dec 2015, 9:51, 11 replies)

Christmas Day 2009 - when I was still drinking. A very sad but thankfully short story in just 4 words
Missed calls
Mum: 35
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Thu 24 Dec 2015, 7:50, 11 replies)

When I was five
I wanted a batmobile, the one from the Adam West batman show. I didn't get it, and when I cried because I didn't get it, my dad beat me. He got the belt and beat me on Christmas.

This year, my wife got me that batmobile for Christmas, and no one beat me. 30 years later.
(CactusZack Shaved his coin purse on, Fri 1 Jan 2016, 1:48, Reply)

Hospital violence
Does December the 23rd count?

I'm currently a patient on a hospital ward and we're all listening to some bloke going absolutely bat shit crazy in one of the side rooms. Two security guards have been posted outside his door for the last few days, 24/7. The guards today would shit up WWF wrestlers in their physical size, I shit you not and both are ex military. Both are wearing bullet proof jackets and all dressed al in black with walkies strapped to their chests and cameras .... oh hang on, an even bigger one's just arrived with a sinister looking metal device that might be a taser? .. and I've just been told I might have to stay here for another week. I've had more festive Christmas's to be honest.
(Swafty, Wed 23 Dec 2015, 20:06, 3 replies)

Santa’s Dead
As you so enjoyed the last one, here's another festive poem for you!

MERRY CHRISTMAS SWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETIEEEEEEZE!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Santa’s Dead

Remove the ivy from your door
Tell the children Christmas is no more
Take down the decs, the tree and holly -
‘Tis NOT the season to be jolly.

No mistletoe kisses for plain Jane -
She’ll be singing a mournful refrain.
No presents under the tree for Mark -
He’ll be weeping softly in the dark.

Christmas crackers rot in their boxes
Mince pies thrown out for the foxes
Carol singers struck down with laryngitis -
Everyone knows what a sad sight that is.

Children cannot be consoled
Parents wretched, tired and old
Everyone trying to get into their head
The sad news: FATHER CHRISTMAS IS DEAD.

The church bells toll a funeral sound as
Santa lies lifeless in the ground,
His reindeers slaughtered, their carcasses raw –
And the elves won’t be found until the next thaw.

Santa’s dead, on Christmas Eve
Santa’s dead, the whole universe grieves
Santa’s dead, now his grave is filled in
Santa’s dead - AND IT WAS ME THAT KILLED HIM.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Wed 23 Dec 2015, 15:00, 4 replies)

turkey disaster
Got up Christmas morning to discover the cat had taken several chunks out of the defrosting turkey.
Gave it wash with the thinking that cooking it would removing any germs.
Took the bag of giblets out and cooked it.
When I took it out of the oven there was a peculiar smell.
Discovered that there had been a second plastic bag of giblets stuffed in to the neck cavity
Oops.
I didn't tell anyone, it tasted fine and as far as I know no-one got sick
(insomniac-surfer oh go on then, just this once, Mon 21 Dec 2015, 0:39, Reply)

Christmas Suicide
Time for a Yuletide poem to cheer all you miserable sweetieze up!

This was the last work of failed Taunton poet and shelf-stacker Kevin Whirple, whose body was found on New Year's Day 2005 in his squalid bedsit next to a semen-stained copy of Shaven Havens, a pile of purloined Spaghetti Hoops tins, and a typewriter in which rested the tear-spotted sheets upon which this poem had been typed. Aged only 28, Whirple had aspired to be the new Philip Larkin or perhaps John Betjeman, but had failed to break in to the live poetry circuit due to his acute shyness and the shiteness of his poems. And so his final act, before downing his fatal festive cocktail of Domestos and vodka, was to write this poem. Maybe it's just me, but on this evidence I think we lost a great genius far too young.

Christmas Suicide

Sleigh bells chime,
Carol singers sing,
Presents under the tree -
But not for me.

No friends,
Family all gone,
No sex since 2001 -
All alone.

The stark horror of Yuletide!
It’s time for my CHRISTMAS SUICIDE.

The telly taunts me
With how life should be:
Couples – hugging
After Christmas shopping;
Families – happy
Round the Christmas tree;
Children – at play
O the Joy of Christmas Day!

But not for I.
I can’t even cry.
No Christmas decorations,
Just piss and desolation.

The last Christmas card I had
Was from my mum and Dad
In 1997,
But now they are in Heaven.

Christmas Day for me
Is abject misery
So painful I can’t endure it,
But neither can I ignore it,
So Christmas Eve sees me
With beer and vodka and whisky
To get my whistle wet
And make me forget
That tomorrow I will wake and see
No presents beneath the Christmas tree
That I don’t have.

Santa hasn’t been!
Santa hasn’t been!
Although I don’t believe in him,
SANTA HASN’T BEEN.

I do not want for much,
Just the merest human touch;
But I’m denied all this.
Dare I dream a kiss
Beneath the mistletoe?
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh –
A perfumed neck, excited eyes,
A promise, soft, compliant thighs,
And Christmas consummation?
No – for me, isolation.

So it didn’t really take me long to decide
On a SPECTACULAR Christmas suicide!

Full of hate and booze
I might even make the news!
But as I will be dead,
I won’t give a shit.

So now, as Winter encroaches,
My lonely death approaches,
But weep not for me.
By my own hand it shall be.
I’ll drink beyond my fill
And take a lot of pills,
And to make really sure.
I’ll lock the door.

And then for the last time I’ll close my eyes…
But, wait; what’s this – doubts arise;
Doubts which give me room for pause,
Maybe there IS a Santa Claus!
Maybe this Christmas will NOT be shite
And everything will be all right!
Maybe, if I pray to God above me,
I’ll meet somebody who loves me!
Someone loving and happy and giving,
So maybe – just maybe – life IS worth living!

LIKE FUCK IT IS.
Goodbye.
And a very Merry Christmas to one and all.
(Dr Skagra glorious glargzhem, Sun 20 Dec 2015, 17:36, 8 replies)

See how we yawn...
at your bile and your scorn
It’s a beautiful day
Peace on Earth has been played
Make a noise with your toys
and ignore the killjoys
'cos it’s cliched to be cynical at Christmas.
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 10:22, 1 reply)

My wife gave birth to someone else's baby.

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 17 Dec 2015, 9:07, 5 replies)